


The Most Difficult Four Months

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Series: The Autumn of Our Content [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second part of <i>The Autumn of Our Content</i>, set about a week after the events of <i>Why Maine Is Such A Good Idea</i>.  Following a strenuous case (and Alexis's phone call), Beckett needs to talk to Castle.  But there are important things to be done first....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Do You Feel About Fish and Chips?

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _Castle_ is the creation of Andrew W. Marlowe and belongs (more or less) to ABC Studios. The following story is set some time in the future, and may or may not reflect events as they eventually play out on the series itself.
> 
> **Notes:** _Why Maine Is Such A Good Idea_ was supposed to be a one-shot, but what can you do when people make suggestions? This story takes place about a week after the events of the earlier installment.

**New York, NY – 12th Precinct Police HQ**

"Good job," Captain Montgomery said, looking from Beckett to Castle and back again. It had been another high-profile murder – the corpse of a popular broadcaster had been found in the visiting team's dugout at Yankee Stadium – but the killer was in custody, and for a wonder, the only additional casualties had been three of Detective Ryan's ribs. "The mayor – and the baseball commissioner – are both very happy this is over."

"That makes three of us," said Beckett. "So what's the word on Ryan?"

"He'll be out for the rest of the week," replied the captain. "Oh, and don't tell him yet, but he's in line for a bravery medal when he gets back. I got an official ruling; for purposes of combat citations, baseballs from a pitching machine count as automatic weapons fire."

"I could have told you that," Castle said feelingly. "You should've seen what happened to my cell phone."

Beckett shot him an eye roll. "Lucky for you it was the phone," she said. "If one of those balls had connected...." Castle sucked in a breath, nodded, and didn't attempt a comeback. On one level, the confrontation had been the sort of comic-opera firefight that was easy to laugh about afterward and promised to become a citywide legend in police circles, but the plain fact was that they'd been in real danger, and Ryan's actions had saved both their lives.

"But it didn't," said Montgomery. "Now both of you get out of here. The paperwork can wait till tomorrow, Detective," he added, cutting off her attempt to object. "You deserve some rest."

"Yes, sir," Beckett said, mostly holding back a sigh as she turned to follow Castle out of the office.

"Dinner, Detective?" Castle asked cheerily as they headed for the elevator. "Or would you prefer a deep, relaxing massage?"

Esposito looked up from his desk, flashing the writer a grin, but swallowed whatever he'd been about to say at Beckett's patented Laser Death Glance. "In your dreams," she told him – but a moment later, in the privacy of the elevator, her face turned serious. "Castle, we need to talk."

He recoiled in mock discomfiture. "My intentions were purely therapeutic. I can get us in at—"

Beckett's muscles practically salivated at the prospect of the level of pampering Castle could afford, but long-established habits held out. "Don't tempt me."

"It's what I do," Castle retorted. "And don't you tell me you couldn't use the de-stressing," he added, his voice abruptly losing its jocular quality.

Beckett opened her mouth to tell him exactly that – and just as abruptly reconsidered. "Point taken. But—" she held up a hand before Castle could interrupt, "two conditions. I'll take you up on that massage – for one, thank you very much – if you let _me_ buy _you_ dinner."

Castle blinked twice, his gaze fixed so firmly on Beckett that he nearly bowled over a uniform as they stepped out of the elevator. She steered him to a reasonably quiet corner of the building's lobby, glancing at her watch as they went. "Quarter to two," she told him. "Better not waste time."

Cell phone already in hand, he paused. "What, you doubt my powers of persuasion? I'm hurt."

"Hah," Beckett said, then frowned. "About dinner—"

"Don't tell me you've remembered a prior commitment already."

Beckett gave him an annoyed look. "Not a chance. I told you we need to talk – but we need to do it someplace where the paparazzi won't be lurking and the waiters won't sell our dinner menu to the highest bidder."

"Privacy and discretion. I suppose my place is out of the question," Castle said, his tone making clear that he already knew the answer. "Hmmm. How do you feel about fish and chips?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You'd better not be downscaling your palate on my account."

"I wouldn't dare." He named an address on the fringes of the West Village. "Comfortable place, totally off the jet-set radar, the owner's an old friend. Now let me work the Castle magic." Seven minutes and three phone calls later, Castle opened the door of the town car he'd summoned and shepherded Beckett inside. "See you at seven-thirty."

# # #

**New York, NY – outer West Village**

Physically, Kate Beckett reflected some five and a half hours later, she hadn't felt this good in God knew how long. Her emotions, however, were another matter entirely.

Almost half that time had been spent at the spa Castle had commandeered. Her masseuse had been a tiny cinnamon-haired woman called Jeanette with a musical French accent, Asian features – and the hands of a black belt at who knew what. For the first ten minutes, Jeanette had barely skimmed Beckett's skin with her fingertips, reading the knots in her tendons and the kinks in her nerves. Then she'd spent the next half hour methodically kneading, untwisting, and realigning Beckett's insides with a gentle but assured strength out of all proportion to her diminutive size. Beckett had never gone in for the mystical side of the martial arts, but after an hour with Jeanette, she was prepared to believe in chi power; nothing else quite explained some of the feats the woman had accomplished.

After a brief, restful interlude in a pleasantly steam-filled sauna, there'd been a whirlwind hour of exfoliating, manicuring, pedicuring, and general primping. Beckett had initially protested that she didn't want a makeover; Leonid, the genial Russian who had led the team of beauticians, merely nodded sagely and said, "Nor do you need one. For you, we merely reawaken what is already there." So her hair had been washed and luxuriously brushed, but the style had been left as it was, there had been no elaborate applications of makeup or the like, and she had been dispatched home to her apartment feeling more purely relaxed than she had in ages.

Now she was back in Castle's hired town car on her way to dinner, and though Beckett's nerves weren't exactly frazzled, doubts were bubbling up in her head and her mental script for the evening was threatening to unravel. But before she could tell the driver to turn around, he made a crisp right turn, pulled over to the sidewalk, and said, "Here we are."

With a sigh, Beckett opened the rear passenger door, then dipped quickly into her pocketbook and came up with a twenty. "Thanks; you've been great," she told the driver as she held it out.

He gave her an apologetic over-the-shoulder grin. "It's taken care of, miss. Mister Castle gave very strict instructions."

"I'm sure he did," Beckett said wryly. "But since he isn't here, and there's undoubtedly somebody in your family with a college fund—"

The grin got even more apologetic. "He'd know. He just would. He does that."

Beckett frowned, contemplating Castle's twin obsessions with gadgets and one-upsmanship. "I hate to admit it, but you're right." Then her face abruptly acquired a Grinch-worthy grin. "On the other hand, I'd say you're entitled to confiscate anything he's planted in here without your permission, and a good spycam ought to sell for more than the price of a tip. I promise he won't make trouble about it," she added, fishing her badge out and flashing it. "If he does, I'll arrest him." Returning both badge and money to her pocketbook, she stepped out onto the sidewalk, leaving the driver wearing a dazed expression.

Even with the address memorized, it took her almost a full minute to locate Hennessy's Catch. There was no storefront, only a sturdy door with a brass nameplate on it, tucked snugly into the space between a dry cleaner's and a comic-book shop. Beckett cocked a thoughtful eyebrow at the sign, revised her culinary expectations upward – surely you couldn't make the kind of money on fish and chips that it took to be this inconspicuous – and opened the door.

A narrow but well lit wood-paneled corridor led straight back to the rear of the building, then split. The left-hand alcove housed a pay phone and doors marked Lads and Lassies, while the right-hand opening led into the restaurant. A sturdy silver-haired man in an officer's uniform straight out of Treasure Island stepped from behind the host's station to greet her in an equally sturdy Boston accent. "Aye, you'll be Detective Beckett. Let me show ye to Mr. Castle's booth."

"Please do," she told him, then unleashed just enough strength of gaze to forestall any possible argument. "Just one thing. Whatever standing arrangements you may usually have with Mr. Castle, the check this evening comes to me and only to me."

"Aye, miss, just as ye say." To his credit, the maitre d' looked only faintly cowed as he led Beckett through a rectangular dining room carpeted in deep forest green and built to resemble the interior of an old-fashioned sailing ship. Tall-backed booths lined the walls, and square tables with equally tall-backed chairs shared the room's interior with a compact central galley in which two white-coated cooks tended a number of steaming kettles. Though nearly every available seat was occupied and the atmosphere was one of quiet bustle, true to Castle's promise, the layout was clearly designed to ensure that diners mostly kept to themselves.

Castle whistled – though very softly – as Beckett shrugged off her coat and handed it to the maitre d' before sliding into the open end of his curved corner booth. "Your afternoon has clearly worked wonders."

She resisted the impulse to fire back a barbed rejoinder, instead allowing herself a moment to savor the compliment. Choosing her outfit – a knee-length navy skirt paired with a blue and white tartan-plaid blouse and accented with a silver metallic-weave scarf – had been a challenge. Her plans for the evening, such as they were, emphatically didn't call for outright seduction, but she had wanted to project a bit more of a "come hither" look than she usually conveyed – especially around Castle.

"So," Beckett said instead, turning her head to survey the room. "Tell me the story. A place like this has to have one, and you said the owner was an old friend."

"I did," said Castle, "and she is. Well, actually, the whole family is – I was in school with her brother, and I didn't meet her till I was halfway through college. Their dad was a commercial fisherman; he went to Alaska every year for the season. Patrick followed his dad into the business after his freshman year, but Morgan graduated two years behind me and went on for her masters."

Beckett eyed her table-mate skeptically. "And I suppose she fell for your roguish charm along the way?"

"Believe it or not, he didn't even try," said an amused voice from above Beckett's shoulder. "I think he was worried about what Patrick might do if he did."

"Live lobsters had been mentioned," Castle confirmed. "Morgan, allow me to introduce the woman I fear and admire most in the entire city of New York—"

"Kate Beckett," said both Beckett and the newcomer at once. The other woman, a well-muscled redhead dressed in a chef's coat and slacks, continued, "I've been telling him to bring you in for the past year and a half."

"Oh?"

Morgan Hennessy grinned at her. "As far as I know, you and I are the only two women Rick's ever hung out with for more than six months without carving a notch you-know-where. That makes you...intriguing."

"That makes me rational," Beckett retorted, smiling back despite herself. The remark might have been blunt, but the woman who'd made it was both forthright and perceptive.

"Rational? Not the word I'd use," Castle put in.

Morgan laughed. "Between the two of you, you could outstubborn a whole herd of camels. In the meantime, Colin here will look after you tonight. These are on me – and so is the first round. Not to worry," she added to Beckett as she stepped sideways, "he has the instructions you gave Uncle Will. Enjoy – everything." With a last, private smile at Beckett, Morgan turned and strode briskly away, while a young, skinny waiter whose wire-rimmed glasses clashed with his Spanish Main sailor's outfit carefully set down a shallow woven basket heaped with golden-brown cubes roughly the size of ping pong balls.

Beckett eyed the basket's contents critically. "What are they?"

Castle had already speared two and dunked the first in one of three ramekins Colin had set next to the basket. "Addictive," he said, pausing with fork in mid-air. "Try one and see. I recommend the barbeque sauce."

"In that case, I'll try this one," Beckett told him, capturing a cube with her own fork and dipping one lightly breaded corner gingerly into the dark, sticky-looking sauce in the third of the small bowls. Popping the cube into her mouth, she bit into it, chewed...and barely avoided choking in delighted surprise.

"Smoked salmon!" she said between bites, quickly matching Castle nugget for nugget of deep-fried yet somehow greaseless goodness. "And that teriyaki sauce is amazing."

"It is," Castle agreed, "but for these, the barbeque is culinary perfection."

"Teriyaki."

"Barbeque."

"Teriyaki."

"Barbeque."

"Teriyaki!"

"Barbeque!"

"Barbeque!"

"Teri—wait a second, that's cheating!" Castle said indignantly, as Beckett neatly speared the last of the salmon nuggets...and dipped it into what was left of the barbeque sauce.

She chewed, swallowed, and gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. "All's fair in love and salmon fishing," she said, licking her lips. "And it is damned good barbeque sauce."

There was a brief pause in the conversation as Colin the waiter reappeared to take their dinner orders. Her curiosity aroused, Beckett ordered the "Queen's Treasure", which promised three kinds of fish and three kinds of chips. Castle gave the menu a moment's glance, started to speak, then suddenly shook his head. "Tell Morgan to surprise me."

"Yes, sir," said Colin. "And to drink?"

Castle ordered a Widmer hefeweizen and the waiter turned to Beckett, who set down the long list of microbrews and house wines with a doubtful expression. "I don't know..."

"Compliments of the house," Castle reminded her.

"With your dinner," the waiter put in, "the hefeweizen would be a good choice; we also have a Drifter pale ale from Widmer on tap that I'd recommend."

_Not exactly the issue,_ Beckett carefully didn't say aloud. _The question is, how badly am I likely to screw this up without adding booze to the equation? Then again, if I can't have this conversation stone cold sober, why the Hell am I here in the first place?_ She took a deep breath. "Let's try the Drifter, then."

Moments later, two pint glasses of golden liquid arrived at the table. Castle picked his up, sipped, and spoke.

"All right, Detective," he said. "The groundwork's laid, the players assembled, the stage set. Now it's time to write the scene. So tell me – what is it we need to talk about?"


	2. I Bet There's A Novel In There Somewhere

Beckett froze.  _This isn’t something I can just blurt out.  It needs—_

The mental light bulb went on, she let out a breath and gave the ceiling a moment’s long-suffering glance.  “Good grief, Castle, you’re supposed to be the hotshot writer.  A scene like this needs pacing, setup, mood.  If I just dropped a line like _I’m pregnant_ or _I’m dying of cancer_ on you cold, it would ruin the whole dinner.”

Castle frowned.  “Point taken.  Although either of those lines would ruin the whole dinner no matter when you delivered it.”  He looked at her worriedly.  “You aren’t, are you?”

“Aren’t what?”

“Pregnant.  Or dying of cancer.”

Beckett eyed the ceiling again.  “Neither.  Although I don’t quite see why my being pregnant would be dinner-ruining news.”

“That’s easy,” Castle said at once.  “Because the baby would be someone else’s. So I’d either have to be totally polite to the father and stop flirting with you – which would probably kill me – or else I’d have to kill the sorry bastard who’d done you wrong, which would get me put away for life.”

“Only if you were caught,” Beckett pointed out.  “You’re telling me the great Richard Castle couldn’t plot a murder sneaky enough to bamboozle the entire New York police department?”

Castle shrugged.  “I could do that in my sleep – if I were In my right mind.  But if you were pregnant, and some sorry bastard had done you wrong, I would not be in my right mind.  I would be consumed by primal rage.  I would make the Incredible Hulk look like a pussycat.  I would seek out that sorry bastard and rend him limb from limb with my obscenely mutated giant green muscles.  And then I would collapse in on myself and lie there sad and senseless in a puddle of God-knows-what until you and Esposito and Ryan came to take me away.”

Beckett gave him an indulging-the-nine-year-old look.  “You do realize you’re completely nuts, right?”

“I have never been more serious in my entire life,” Castle told her, in a voice that actually matched the words.  “Except possibly for the part about the giant green muscles.”

“All right, then,” Beckett said, trying not to sound unduly disconcerted, “we’ll take that as given.  But the other part, where you said having to stop flirting with me would kill you – that was dramatic license.  Wasn’t it?”

Castle eyed her with a disturbingly penetrating expression.  “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“Amazingly enough, no,” Beckett said.  “Now answer the question.”

Castle frowned again.  “Not flirting would be hard,” he said slowly, “but not fatal.  But not having you to flirt _with_ – because you were being pregnant and happy with someone else – I think that actually might be.  Fatal, that is.   Are you absolutely sure you’re not pregnant?”

“Positive,” said Beckett dryly, “and I do think I’d know.  But you realize what this means, don’t you?”

Castle thought for a moment.  “That you’re right, I have gone completely nuts and I’m going to need years of expensive psychotherapy?”

Beckett resisted the impulse to reach across the table and shake him.  “No,” she said.  “It means the flirting stopped being just flirting a long time ago, and turned into something else – something a lot more serious.  Do I really have to spell this out for you, Castle?”  She paused, took a long sip from her glass, then set it down and steepled her hands, resting her chin on them.

“More serious,” Castle said, looking across the table as if he’d never seen Beckett before.  “You’re talking about...the L word.  The _real_ L word.  The till-death-do-us-part L word.”

“Boggles the mind, doesn’t it?” said Beckett.  “Richard Castle, king of the swinging singles, _Cosmopolitan_ cover model, the White Whale of the charity social circuit, falls head over heels for a plain-Jane New York homicide cop.  I bet there’s a novel in there somewhere.”

“You are not a plain Jane,” Castle objected.  “You’ve never been a plain Jane, or even a plain Kate.”

“Careful,” Beckett cut in, smiling despite herself.  “One wrong Shakespeare quote and you’re in deep trouble.”

Castle sighed dramatically.  “Yes, well, aren’t I already in the deepest possible trouble?  I’ve fallen head over heels for a frighteningly gorgeous New York homicide cop who returns my every advance by twisting my ear and throwing cold water on my unrequited affections.  I’m doomed, I tell you, doomed.”

Beckett took a deep breath, straightened, and looked Castle squarely in the eye.  “That makes two of us, then.  Because I have it on excellent authority that I’ve fallen head over heels for an incorrigibly reckless best-selling mystery novelist who follows me around like a St. Bernard puppy that’s too big and rambunctious not to get into trouble, too adorable to really get mad at for more than five minutes at a time, and too loyal and capable not to keep around for the times my life and my sanity need saving.”

“A St. Bernard puppy....”  Castle absent-mindedly counted off the points on his fingers as he processed the long, breathlessly delivered sentence.  Then he blinked, looked at his half-full glass of hefeweizen for a long, inscrutable moment, and returned his gaze to Beckett.  “You’re talking about the L-word again – the _real_ L-word.  Only....”

“Only about me, yes.  Which means we’ve got something else in common besides being mutually doomed.  It means we’ve both spent the last couple of years being totally, completely oblivious about our relationship.”

Castle’s expression was hopeful.  “So now that we’ve stopped being oblivious, we can be mutually doomed together.  Wait, that didn’t come out right.”

“I’m not so sure,” Beckett said in a wry tone.  “If we’re both admitting that the real L-word is in play, _mutually doomed_ may be about right.  I mean, can you imagine us as an old marr—”  She stopped in mid-word.

“An old married couple?” Castle said, finishing the sentence.  “Matching rocking chairs.  A houseful of grandchildren at Christmas.  Mobi-scooters with built-in laser tag cannons.”  His eyes had gone suspiciously bright.  “If that’s what mutual doom looks like, I think I want to live there.  And not just for the scooters,” he added, reaching across the table and taking one of Beckett’s hands in his.  “Katherine Elizabeth Beckett, will you—”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Morgan Hennessy said, smiling.  Beside her, Colin the waiter smoothly flicked open a folding base with one hand and set a wide serving tray on it with the other.  As Colin set a broad, well-heaped oval plate in front of Beckett, Morgan arranged two small condiment bowls beside Castle’s place, one holding a trio of lime wedges, the other filled with a mixture of freshly chopped onion and cilantro.  Then she placed a considerably larger bowl – nearly platter-sized but shallow – in front of Castle, this one heaped with shrimp, mussels, vegetables, and chunks of fish bathed in steaming golden broth.

Castle inhaled, studied the bowl for a moment, and inhaled again.  “This is new,” he said.  “Like cioppino, only – Mexican?”

“Very good,” said Morgan.  “It’s _caldo de mariscos_, also called ‘seven seas soup’.  Believe it or not, we’ve had enough people mention tomato allergies lately that I’m scouting for new recipes.  Spicier than a cioppino or bouillabaisse, but hopefully not too potent.  Let me know what you think.”

“What I think is that it smells amazing,” Beckett said, fanning with her hand as if to waft steam from Castle’s bowl toward her side of the table.

Morgan grinned.  “If you can get him to share, you’re a better woman than I am,” she said, setting an empty bowl next to Castle to hold discarded mussel shells.  “Enjoy – and let Colin know if you need more beer.”  Both Beckett and Castle declined the offer, and Morgan saluted as she and the server bustled off.

For the next few minutes, both diners concentrated chiefly on their food.  “Amazing,” Beckett said again, after swallowing a bite from a large square chunk of halibut coated with light, crisp batter.  “Not even remotely greasy.”

“Morgan says it’s all about temperature control,” Castle said, lifting a shrimp-laden spoon toward his mouth.  “That, and the right oil.”

Beckett nodded, switching to a mahi mahi fillet whose breading was sturdier and more noticeably spiced than that from the earlier salmon nuggets.  "Morgan is a genius," she said.  "But how in hell does she keep this place from being mobbed?"

Castle’s smile reminded Beckett of the Cheshire Cat.  “The one bribe no critic can resist,” he told her, “provided the food is good enough.  They mention her in print, she closes her doors.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“She’s done it twice,” Castle replied.  “The first place was over by South Street Seaport, but Morgan folded it after a _Post_ food writer called her bluff and reopened two months later under a new name in Battery Park City.  A paparazzi crashed that one a year and a half ago, took photos, and sold them to _Us_.  She vacated a week after the magazine hit the stands, and came here six weeks after that.  She’s also had about five different offers to go regional and/or franchise and turned them all down flat.  It’s a quality control thing, she says.”  He stopped talking, neatly extracted the meat from the last mussel in his bowl, and ate it.

“That’s – impressive,” Beckett finally said, finishing the mahi mahi and making serious inroads on her Cajun-battered catfish.  “But then, so is the food.”

“It is.”  Castle signaled Colin, who cleared away most of the plates and brought a second round of ale.  He snared a ‘floater’ from the remains of Beckett’s mountain of chips – a round, pale golden potato slice just thick enough to have a tender center – and went on.  “But we digress.  There’s the small matter of a certain unfinished question—”

Beckett drew in her breath.  “An awfully sudden question, isn’t it?”

“You’re the one who brought up the L-word.  And the M-word, for that matter.  There’s a certain natural progression there, I should think.  Unless,” Castle said abruptly, “you wanted to skip straight to the moving-in thing before having the M-word conversation.”

A short, sharp laugh escaped Beckett’s lips.  “God, Castle, I only wish it were that easy.”

“And why shouldn’t it be?”  There was a touch of the nine-year-old in Castle’s voice now.

“I’ve told you before, when it comes to marriage I’m a one-and-done girl.  In this line of work you take till-death-do-us-part pretty damned seriously.”  Beckett held up a hand before Castle could interrupt.  “Admitting how I feel about you is scary enough; what I don’t know is whether I can live with you twenty-four-seven.  With or without benefits,” she added, shaking her head bemusedly.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Castle observed as Beckett shooed his hand away from her last few chips.  “You’re always welcome at castle Castle.  With or without benefits,” he finished, clearly trying not to sound too hopeful.

Beckett sighed.  “But that’s just it,” she said.  “I don’t think this is something we can do halfway.  Either it’s going to work straight through to the rocking chairs and the grandchildren—“

“—and the laser tag mobi-scooters—“

“—and the laser tag mobi-scooters,” Beckett agreed with only a moment’s heavenward glance, “or it’s going to crash and burn with enough fireworks to take out the Empire State Building.  I can see us being married...maybe...but I can’t see being your mistress.”

“If those are the choices,” Castle said, “I know which one I’m voting for.  And I know a cute wedding chapel in Atlantic City....”

Beckett invoked the Laser Death Glance.  “Ohhh, no.  No cute wedding chapels, and no quickie ceremony in Judge Markway’s chambers.  One and done, remember?”

Castle brightened.  “Oooh.  We can book the Cloisters.  I bet Teddy Farrow would design your dress.  And the TV coverage would be awes—OWW!” he yelped, pulling his nose back and out of Beckett’s grasp.  “All right, I give up, you get to make all the wedding decisions.”

“Damn straight,” Beckett said.  “But this?  This is what scares me.  You have no idea just how much I want us to work – which is _really_ scary, considering up till a week ago I didn’t realize there even _was_ an us.  But marriage is a partnership, Castle, and the one thing I know I can’t do?  Spend every day for the rest of my life parenting your inner nine-year-old.  If you really want the rocking chairs and the grandkids and God help me, the scooters, you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

The glass of hefeweizen in Castle’s hand had stopped in midair at _up till a week ago_.  At _partnership_, he set the glass down again.  At _inner nine-year-old_, he swallowed and his eyes flared for a fraction of a second, but he resisted the impulse to interrupt.  At _meet me halfway_, he swallowed again, closed his eyes, folded his hands flat against the table, and sat virtually motionless for two full minutes, his breathing quiet and regular.  Beckett watched him, fascinated, until at last he blinked and broke the silence.

“That,” he said, “explains a hell of a lot.”

“Not following over here.”

“About what happened before.  Meredith and I were great at being nine together, but when we had Alexis, I grew up – well, part time, anyway,” Castle said defensively, as Beckett gave him a look, “and Meredith didn’t.  And Gina?  I don’t think she ever had an inner nine-year-old even when she _was_ nine.”

“Or if she did,” Beckett said, recalling her few encounters with Castle’s publisher, “her name was Lucy Van Pelt, and she was the crabbiest girl in the neighborhood.”

“And still is,” said Castle.  “You’re asking a lot, you know.  I like my inner nine-year-old.  He gives me some of my best ideas.”

“And some of your worst ones.  You never have explained that naked horseback ride.”

“Some things are better left to the imagination – and that may be one of them.  Still, my nine-year-old is part of what makes me so adorable.”

“Adorable,” Beckett agreed, “and annoying.  I mean it, Castle – meet me halfway?”

Castle’s face took on an unusually serious expression.  “A partnership it is,” he said.  Then he produced a mischievous smile.  “Just one thing.  If one of my jobs is reining my inner nine-year-old in, then it follows that one of yours is letting your inner nine-year-old out to play more often.  Agreed?”

Beckett laughed.  “Fair enough – but be careful what you wish for.  I’m not sure I know mine very well anymore; she could turn out to be a handful.”

“I think I’ll manage.  Now about that wedding...maybe week after next?”

“You wish,” Beckett said, amused.  “No, it has to be Christmas week.”

Castle frowned.  “It’s barely even September yet.  That’s a long time to wait.”

“Not if we’re going to do this right,” said Beckett.  “Think about it: who’s the one person besides us that we absolutely have to have on hand when we say the I-dos?”

“The minister?”

Beckett’s hand was halfway to Castle’s nose before she caught herself and pulled back.  “No, silly – Alexis.  Though now that I think about it, that does create a problem.”

“Oh?  What kind of problem?”

“Technically, she should probably be your best man – or best girl, I suppose.  But I also kind of have to ask her to be my maid of honor.”

Castle eyed Beckett curiously.  “And why is that?”

Beckett sighed.  “Who do you think called me up a week ago and told me – really, really politely, mind you – that I’d been a complete idiot for the better part of three years for not realizing how I felt about her father?  And suggested that maybe I ought to do something about it?””

“Alexis did that?”  Castle seemed torn between appalled fascination and paternal pride.

“She did.  She also mentioned – correctly, as it turns out – that her father had long since fallen head over heels for me.”

“I see,” Castle said, pride gaining the upper hand.  “She is, after all, extraordinarily perceptive.”

“And single-handedly responsible for cluing us in to our mutual obliviousness.  Which is why we can’t possibly get married without her,” Beckett said firmly.

Castle nodded.  “And since we’re being mature and responsible and grown up about it, we’re scheduling the wedding when she’ll be home for the holidays, instead of pulling her out of school to fulfill our selfish passions.”

“Something like that,” Beckett said.  “Although there is one other factor.”

“Oh?” Castle said again.  “And that would be what?”

Beckett took a deep breath.  “It gives us time for a test drive.  No, not that kind of test drive,” she said at once.  “Just a chance to make sure we actually can live under one roof without killing each other inside the first week.”

“So you are moving in,” Castle said, sounding pleased.

“Into the loft?” said Beckett.  “God help me, yes.  But like I said before – I can handle married, but I can’t handle mistress, at least not with you.  If we turn out to be fatally incompatible as roommates, I’d rather be the one girl that got away than just another in your long line of conquests.  Besides which,” she added, “if you did have your way with me and then we broke up, Ryan and Esposito would undoubtedly kill you.”

Castle gulped.  “There is that.  On the other hand, if you move in and I don’t have my way with you, they’re going to tease me unmercifully for the next four months.  Or else they’ll think I’ve been replaced by an alien pod person, since the real Richard Castle couldn’t possibly resist you for all that time.”

“Tell them you’re saving it for your last wedding night ever,” Beckett suggested, eyes sparkling.  “And think how much energy you’ll have built up by then after holding out for so long.”

He shook his head skeptically – but Beckett could see the smile Castle was hiding behind his hand.  “These are going to be the most difficult four months of my entire life.”

“Mine, too,” Beckett said.  “But if we survive, the fifty-odd years after that should be a piece of cake.”

“Cake?” said Morgan Hennessy, causing both Beckett and Castle to snap straight upright in their seats.  “Not tonight, I’m afraid.  I can offer you peach cobbler, blueberry mousse, or French vanilla ice cream.”  She regarded the two of them with an amused expression.  “I haven’t missed anything important here, now have I?”

Beckett and Castle looked at each other.  Castle shrugged.  “I am a man of my word.”

Beckett chuckled, looked up at Morgan, and asked, “I don’t suppose you do catering?”


End file.
